A Dysfunctional Pizza Night.

You know what’s annoying? Those couples who cook some elaborate meal together and then document every step of it and then photograph the finished product and then blog about it and then ohmygod it’s actually the cutest thing EVER and then you hate them for being so cute and then you kind of hope their kitchen catches on fire? Yeah, those couples are the worst.

You know the types I’m talking about: those irritatingly cute, talented bloggers who make cooking from scratch look like a walk in the park– a fun, breezy, low-stress walk in the park where they simultaneously transcribe their exchange of witty banter they had with their spouses that day and then still have time to impart some little gem of feel-good wisdom to their readers. So I was pondering this rare breed of human while walking my maniac pup, Milo, the other night, and I came to a few conclusions. 1) I really do commend these annoying people for their proclivity for complete perfection and 2) I know I am not (nor will I ever be) one of them.

“But should that keep me from blogging about MY cooking endeavors, favorite recipes, home deco experiments, new beauty finds and other sorts of domestic female general interests???” I screamed out loud to no one in particular while leading Milo into the dog park. The dog park seemed to clear quickly right after that, and all the dog owners pulled their leashes a little tighter that night, but I couldn’t be bothered by all of that because I had just made a decision: Barton and I were going to make a homemade pizza, and then I was going to blog about it. And we were going to be damn cute doing it.

So, without further ado, here is the master dough maker at work in his element.


Impressive, right?


You know where that big blob of delicious dough landed right after that expert toss? Right smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. Just like I warned him it would. (MEN.) So, things were off to a great start over here.

While I chopped up all the veggie toppings, Barton continued to give me multiple heart attacks by throwing the dough up into the air as high as the ceiling would allow and attempting to catch it with his fists, the whole time yelling in a hybrid Italian accent of sorts. I made him stop mid-toss though to take a picture of me; every step was important, and EVERY STEP needed to be documented, even if my veggie prep step wasn’t as imperative or required as much skill as Barton’s dough prep step (his words, not mine).


The finished product? An odd-shaped monster pie that was probably as tall as it was wide, due to a sudden competitive streak when it came to dressing the pizza with the toppings. What should’ve been a calm, nonthreatening task inexplicably turned into a heated race to see who could add the most toppings in the most appropriate spots of the pizza, while simultaneously correcting each other’s topping placements and ultimately overcompensating. Once again, MEN. Am I right, gals? Can I get an amen, my lady friends?

We sat down and enjoyed our handiwork paired with a salad and some red wine, basking in our blogworthy evening. Then, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night complaining to Barton about feeling sick and eventually convincing myself that I had a raging gluten allergy. (Was I sure what a gluten allergy actually was? No. Did I know exactly how one would go about discerning if she had a gluten allergy? Of course not. It was more of a buzz word I’d heard tossed around in health magazines, but I had already made up my mind by that point, and by God, I was allergic to the gluten in that dough. I was a victim, yes, but I would be a survivor. Maybe I would be a pillar of hope for all the other gluten allergy sufferers? Later that night, I went back to the fridge and ate the leftover pizza for a late night snack and waited for the allergy to wreak its havoc on my body. I felt okay. I don’t know, I heard it comes and goes.)

I know I’m missing an intricate part of the process by  not publishing a photo of the final product. The thing is, I accidentally burned it, leaving all of the once-beautiful red sundried tomatoes sprinkled atop the pizza looking like a bunch of little black worms crawling around on it. Not a good look for our pizza, guys. But it didn’t matter because I was pretty sure I had enough blogging material by that point to make me feel like a psuedo-domestic cooking blogger, and I was pretty sure we looked damn cute in the process (just smile and nod here), even if I did almost die of a gluten attack.


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